


Mutsuki Tooru

by Sundance7936



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: F/M, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 06:53:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16321268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sundance7936/pseuds/Sundance7936





	Mutsuki Tooru

His hands were rough. Hard lines ran deep in his palm, the muscle thick and worn down. It shouldnt be this way, not from the training.

Urie’s were soft and slender as both quinque and paint brush were wrapped around his hand. When he fought, Mutsuki could see the artist in him. His slashes were strokes, the ghoul a canvas, shades of red, dark as a sunset, luminous as a rose, bloomed in every strike.

That was his art.

Mutsuki wrapped his hand around the blade. Short and sharp. To win, precision was key. One wrong move and its ugliness was all that could be seen.

He could never stand that burden. It was his childhood all over again, tip toeing around the needles for a semblance of peace. The sudden wave crashing into him, water pouring down his mouth, choking him, devouring him whole as a single voice cracked through the air.

“Mutsuki.” It was a good thing though. He was his papa'a favorite.

But after they were gone, after the ghouls had taken them away, he could skip and jump, twirl around and run further and further into oblivion. All by himself.

Which is why he should stay in his place. So someone can see him, maybe even run with him. To keep him from drowning. But he couldn’t stand around and do nothing, there must be something only Mutsuki Tooru can do. It was the only way to move forward.

Even when all he wanted was his family again.

Thats when he got his first blade. A pocket-knife, slender and curved yet strong enough to cut through muscle. It had brought color into this world. An ugly shade of red.

But what else could he do?

Gripping handles, one after another, digging deep into his palm. No wonder his hands turned out that way.

He cut through flesh and chipped apart bone, blood running through those deep lines. Torn and gutted, stuffed into a mold, like a little sculpture.

This was his.


End file.
